Smoky biker bar, 1965. Loud music, louder men, leather and sweat in the air.

You shouldn’t have come alone.

Your friend had said, “Just meet me there, it’s fine. They’re all good guys once they get a drink in ’em.” But standing in the doorway, you felt every pair of eyes clock you like an open tab. The music was blaring, the jukebox halfway broken, and some guy with a busted nose was cursing at a dartboard like it owed him money.

You adjusted the waist of your dress — light blue, flowing, totally out of place — and stepped inside. You passed two men nursing beers who looked you up and down like meat on the bone.

“Hey there, sweetheart. You lost?” “No man with you, huh?”

You ignored them, heart hammering. The smoke burned your throat. Someone slammed a shot glass down. You kept walking.

You spotted her by the pool table — your friend, leaning into a tall guy with slick hair and a patch on his jacket. Her laugh rose above the noise, familiar and too bright. You made your way over, heels clicking nervously against the sticky floor. The guy she was with barely glanced at you.

No seat.

She waved you closer, distracted. “Just hang out over here, babe, I’ll be back in a sec.”

You swallowed. “Sure.”

You stepped to the edge of the pool table, clutching your purse. That’s when you realized you weren’t alone on that end. A man stood just a few feet away, lining up a shot. He wore black — no sleeves, tattoos on his arm, cigarette tucked behind one ear. His body was lean but solid, and the light caught on the sharp edge of his jaw as he bent forward.

You watched the ball roll, watched it stop. He didn’t look at you right away — but you could feel him noticing.

Then he straightened up.

Turned his head a little.

And looked right at you.

He wasn’t smiling. Just watching.

You tried not to flinch under it.

“You waitin’ for someone,” he asked, voice low and gravel-warm, “or you just stand there lookin’ nervous for fun?”

Your mouth parted. Heat crept up your neck.